Pearls and Poison (A Consignment Shop Mystery)

by Brown, Duffy

  Boone thought for second. “My guess is they were both in on it. They were in and out of that office, and they both had a lot to lose if the election went south. It sure as heck is easier to substitute the grieving widow who suffered through a cheating husband than defend the rotten, no-good cheating husband. But there’s no proof that I can find that ties Honey and Valley to killing Seymour. Even ordering Honey’s campaign paraphernalia was done after Seymour died.”

  I sat up straight. “You broke into his headquarters to check the invoice, too?”

  “I checked with Francie over at Spanish Moss Printers for the order dates.” Boone shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “What else do you have for Ross. We got to get something to her quick. She’s keeping Cakery Bakery on double shifts and should be the size of a house by Thanksgiving at this rate.”

  “There were digoxin pills lying loose in Scummy’s desk at his campaign headquarters and an empty prescription bottle for the pills in Honey’s purse with no lid. Why the pills one place, the bottle another, and the lid somewhere else? Like someone was in a hurry to clean up?”

  “What else?”

  “I landed in a garbage can and hid under a bed to get that information, so show a little appreciation, and how do you know there’s an else?”

  “Your fake brows are squished together in one long shaggy line. Either you’re thinking, or you’re coming down with some disease.”

  “There’s this skirt. One of Honey’s maids brought it to me to sell at the Fox, but it has spots on it, and I can’t sell it this way. The thing is it was the skirt to the suit Honey wore the day Seymour was knocked off. I recognized it because Honey and Scummy came to Mamma’s headquarters to harass her that day, too. Honey kept the jacket; I saw it in her closet when I was there.”

  Boone let out a long weary sigh, but I ignored it and went on. “Here’s the thing, Honey didn’t send the skirt to the cleaners to try and save it. She just tossed it in the garbage like a rag.”

  Boone hunched his shoulders. “It’s just a skirt, and Honey has money. So she threw out a skirt, no big deal. She gets rid of a lot of things.”

  “Let me tell you about the rich. The reason they have money is because they hold on to it. This is a five-hundred-dollar skirt, maybe more. I think the stains were whiskey stains because Honey admitted she’d ruined two skirts that way, and the spots on the first skirt were dead-on to the ones on the second. The second skirt was going to the cleaners.” I held out my hands. “Why didn’t she take the first one? What was different about it? Why throw out a Chanel skirt?”

  Boone stared straight ahead, gazing off into nothingness, lips thin, jaw set, little gray cells churning behind dark eyes. “Or what’s the difference between the whiskey stains on the first skirt and the whiskey stains on the second?” Boone offered. “If Honey did spike the bourbon that killed Kip and she spilled some of the liquor, she’d want to get rid of the skirt and any trace of what was on it that could be linked back to her. Best to just toss it out.”

  “Except the maid came along and saw dollar signs.”

  “Okay, we got Kip playing bedroom bingo, and Honey and Valley seeing their work going up in smoke and then turning it all around with a sympathetic candidate who’s man did her wrong. Framing Gloria gets her out of the way, and Archie Lee’s not going to win against Honey. Ross should take a look at those spots. The police can analyze material and residue. Where’s this skirt the maid brought to sell?”

  “It’s expensive.”

  “Right, got the memo.”

  “So I sort of took it to the dry cleaners to get the spots out.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  BOONE pushed open the door to Soap Box Cleaners with me right behind him, the little bell tinkling our arrival, my fingers crossed the skirt was untouched by dry-cleaning chemicals.

  “Don’t get yourself all bent out of shape, now ya hear?” came Mary Kay’s voice from the back, carrying over the hum of machines and ringing phones. “I’m dancing as fast as I can, and I’ll be with you in a flash.”

  “Well now, Reagan honey, what can I do for you and . . .” Mary Kay’s gaze shifted from me and landed solidly on Boone. “And thank you, Lord, you done remembered my address and sent me Walker Boone to start my day right. How you doing this morning, handsome?”

  Mary Kay was fiftysomething or maybe sixtysomething, the preservation of dry-cleaning fumes in the air making it hard to tell. She was skinny as a broom handle with red hair ironed and double starched to poker straight. She’d been behind the counter at the Soap Box for as long as I could remember, the little dish of lollypops for kids always full, with a red one on top.

  “Any luck finding Seymour’s killer and getting Gloria off the hot seat?” Mary Kay asked Boone. “Word has it you’re her attorney. Guess it’s your turn to pay her back for helping you get in law school and all.”

  “That she did,” Boone said, a genuine smile on his face as my jaw dropped to the floor. Law school? What law school? Mamma?

  Boone said to Mary Kay, “We’re here about a skirt that Reagan dropped off. Cream colored, expensive, spots down the front. Maybe you haven’t cleaned it yet?”

  Mary Kay snorted. “I went and cleaned that there skirt the very day it came in here. For a second I thought it was one of Honey Seymour’s pieces. She has a pricey suit just like it. I am sorry as can be, but I couldn’t get the stains out for diddly,” Mary Kay said to me. “I tried everything under the sun and then some. Usually I have pretty decent luck with setting stuff to rights, but this skirt was the devil. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what the spots were. Seems to me they were liquor and sticky like and something else that just wouldn’t budge. I’ll get it for you.”

  Mary Kay hit the button for the carousel thing that brought the clothes forward. She plucked off the plastic-bagged skirt and handed it to me. “Sorry about that, Sugar. No charge. Come see me next time you have a problem, and I’ll do better for you.”

  She gazed longingly at Boone. “And you, Mr. Gorgeous, can come pay me a little old visit any time that suits you, now, you hear?”

  Boone followed me outside, then I turned in front of him, making him stop. “What is going on?”

  “At this rate probably not much. After dry cleaning fluid hit that spot, I’d say we’re toast on Ross finding if there was foxglove dissolved in the honey bourbon spilled down the front and—”

  “Not that. Mamma? Law school?”

  “It was either that or juvie.”

  “That’s your answer to everything, and you don’t go to law school as a juvie. Try again.”

  Boone gave a resigned shrug. “My time in a courtroom hasn’t always been as a lawyer. Guillotine Gloria said she saw more of me than most of the attorneys in this city and was tired of me taking up their time. Said I could go to jail for three years or go to law school for three years and that she’d pay the freight.”

  Boone held up the skirt. “I’m taking this to Ross. Maybe there’s some new procedure I don’t know about, and even if there’s not, the possibility of Honey being involved in the murder is still there.”

  Boone started off, and I grabbed his arm. “Mamma never said anything to me about you and going to jail.”

  “Maybe because it was none of your business.”

  “But . . . but I’m her daughter, and she didn’t offer to send me to law school.”

  Boone’s eyes danced. “Blondie, you could never keep your mouth shut long enough to be a lawyer and besides”—devilment replaced dancing as he turned and strolled off toward the Chevy—“she likes me better.”

  Gotcha. I walked right into that one with my eyes wide open because Mamma and Boone had secrets and I was feeling left out. There was more going on with Boone than days in the hood and days as a legal eagle. Making that jump took some doing, and Mamma seemed to be involved. That was a feather in Mamma’s cap. That Boone did the jumping but kept a foot and friends in both camps was a feather in his cap. I didn’t have any feather
s. I had a dog and a slightly falling-down house.

  “Wait,” I yelled at Boone, catching up with him and the skirt by the Chevy, passersby crowding us to the edge of the sidewalk. “What now?” I asked. “The spots are not going to help us nail the one or possibly two who we thought it was going to nail. What do we do next, and don’t give me the go sell a dress routine?”

  “I have work at the office, and you should check on Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “You’re going to powwow with Ross and leave me out like you always do.”

  “I’ll tell you if something important comes up.”

  “After it’s over and done with.”

  “Yeah, but I will tell you.”

  • • •

  BY THREE THE FOX WAS A HUBBUB OF ACTIVITY. With the sun offering up an unusually warm November afternoon, I had the front door wide open. Marigold strolled inside, her face pulled into angry lines.

  “In my humble opinion the only thing eggplants are good for is making an eggplant Parmesan casserole,” Marigold said as she drew up to the checkout door while I wrote up a sale for a tan Michael Kors purse for another customer.

  “You look ready to pull all your hair out by the roots,” I said.

  “Butler says things are worse than ever. How can they be worse? I thought we passed worse six months ago, and yet here we are. Things were supposed to be turning around.” Marigold held up a white cotton bag. “I just picked this up from Odilia; it’s round three in the setting things to rights ritual. What do you think?”

  I took a step back and the Michael Kors customer sucked in a quick breath, snatched up her purse without even waiting for change, and raced out the door. One mention of Odilia and a strange white bag had that effect. “Is there a snake in there?” I asked, every hair on my body standing straight on end. Snakes outside were one thing; snakes in my house were a whole new ballgame.

  “Lord have mercy, no. I don’t do snakes, no matter how bad things get around here.” Marigold undid the swath of material that tied the bag closed, then reached in and pulled out a rattle of sorts made from a dried gourd. “I’ve got a drum in there, too. I’m supposed to beat and shake at sunset at the lumberyard right as the sun fades and before the crescent moon rises, meaning it’s got to be tonight because there’s a crescent moon and not a full one. It’s the perfect time to call in the good ways for business and shut out the bad ways, or so Odilia tells me. Personally, I got serious doubts about there being any good left or if any of this will work, but I got to try something now, don’t I? I’m flat out of options and money, and I’m afraid Butler’s going to do something stupid, even more stupid than he’s done in the past, and that’s going some.”

  Marigold retied the bag and handed it across the checkout door. “Watch this while I look around. Odilia said not to let these things out of my sight. She said it would be best to wear a white cotton dress to do my rattling and drum beating in. Actually, she said it would be best if I did it in my birthday suit.” Marigold pinched the bridge of her nose. “How do I get into these messes?”

  Marigold scurried off, and I put the bag in a safe corner behind the checkout, not wanting any harm to come to it on my watch. I wasn’t real clear on the practices of Odilia, but there was Buffy Codetta and the Savannah River bridge occurrence to consider.

  I cleared out the dressing room and hung things back where they belonged. BW meandered inside, a fedora on his head, little holes cut through for his ears, and a black tie around his neck with a note attached. “You look like part of the Ratpack,” I told BW. “Frank Sinatra with a tail.” The note read . . . Like Cher says, snap out of it.

  I looked to the front door and saw Auntie KiKi poking her head around the edge. She gave a little finger wave and held up her iPhone, making it do a little air dance. Something was up. I was really tired of things being up. Whatever happened to down and boring? “You’re grounded, remember?”

  “Five hours is all the grounded I can manage and the same for your mamma.”

  KiKi pulled up beside me by the rack of little black dresses. “Gloria says she’s done with politics and maybe even being a judge. She’s home with her computer, high-speed Internet, and time on her hands. Her last text said she was signing up for a fashion design class over there at the community college so she can help you out here in the shop.”

  KiKi put her arm around me. “She thinks you should paint the entrance hall persimmon orange and we should wear matching shirts with little polka dot bowties. And there’s something on Twitter you need to see.”

  “I’ve already seen cats playing the piano.”

  “Take a look at this.” KiKi held up her iPhone. “Archie Lee was on Good Morning Savannah, and he’s done invited Honey to the Cemetery for a happy hour of apple pie and politics this afternoon. It’s an antimudslinging get-together with Money-Honey and Archie Lee. Archie Lee’s saying that now with your mamma out of the picture it’s better for everyone because she was the one who caused all of the problems by running a dirty campaign. Do you believe this bunk? This is just another black eye for Gloria. I swear I could wring all their necks and do it gladly.”

  “Let me see that,” Marigold said, snagging the phone right out of KiKi’s hand. “My phone’s dead as a brick. Why can’t these things just recharge themselves? Lord have mercy, look at this right there on Twitter.”

  Marigold read the little screen, her face getting redder by the minute, eyes on fire. “This is so much bull honkey.” Marigold stamped her foot. “Seymour was the guttersnipe who ran all those nasty ads, not Gloria, not a one. Fact is, that’s how Gloria got accused of murder in the first place; she was trying to make nicey-nice with the jackass over a bottle of honey bourbon, and look where it got her, in a mess of trouble and all for nothing.”

  Marigold flung a white dress on the counter and yanked out her wallet. “I bet this is all Honey’s idea. Well, she’s not going to get away with it. I can promise you that. She was as much a part of sewer politics as her husband. I’m willing to bet most of it was her idea. If they all want a fight, we can give them a fight. I still have my connections with the press and TV stations, and I’m going over there right now and set things to rights. Gloria may be accused of murder, but she is not going to be accused of running a mudslinging campaign when she did no such thing. Enough’s enough.”

  Marigold poked herself in the chest with her index finger. “That was my campaign too, you know.” She grabbed the dress before I could put it in a bag and stormed out the door and down the sidewalk to her car.

  “That there is one royally ticked-off female,” KiKi said. “I hope she has some good luck with the press, but I doubt if she will.”

  Luck! The drum! The rattle! I snatched up the white cotton bag from the corner and tore after Marigold just as her little Civic squealed away from the curb and tore down Gwinnett, leaving me looking after her waving the bag in the air hoping she’d see it in her rearview mirror. No such luck.

  I hated that Marigold wasn’t going to shake and drum at sundown because she was off trying to help Mamma. Marigold had her own set of problems to deal with these days. Maybe I could meet her at the lumberyard at sunset. She was in such a tizzy over Mamma being unjustly accused of running a dirty campaign she probably wouldn’t realize she’d left the white cotton bag with me. It wouldn’t dawn on her till she got all the way out to the lumberyard. KiKi could hold down the Fox, and I could borrow the Beemer and meet Marigold with the loot. That might work.

  I turned to go back inside and bumped right into Valley, the manager for the new-and-improved Seymour-for-alderman campaign. Usually Delray Valentine was your mild-mannered insurance salesman in his gray JC Penney’s suit, no-iron blue shirt, and unpolished worn shoes. Today he had on the same sort of clothes, but there was no hint of the mild-mannered element anywhere.

  “I know it was your aunt and mamma at Honey’s rally last night causing all that uproar,” he said in a barely controlled voice. “You may have that Detective Ross in your h
ip pocket, but things are changing here in Savannah, and if you know what’s good for your battleaxe aunt and stick-up-her-behind mother, you’ll keep them away from the get-together we’re having at the Cemetery between Archie Lee and Honey. This is important; the election’s in one week, and those two better not mess it up for us.”

  “You’re not a very nice man, are you?”

  “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he snarled. “Nothing will give me more pleasure than getting your mother and aunt locked up, and from what I hear the new detective in town would like to put your interfering behind in the cell right beside them. I have this election in the bag, we’re way ahead in the polls, and I’m getting backers and raising money, and you and your lunatic family aren’t getting in my way.”

  My way? Interesting. “I didn’t realize you were running for election, Mr. Valentine. Tell me, what’s in it for you? I’m guessing plenty or you wouldn’t have sunk all your time and effort into this campaign then poisoned your own candidate with that foxglove in the honey bourbon concoction. Why was that, to get him out of the way so Honey could step in and take his place? Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Something mean and dark and scary sparked in Valley’s eyes, his hands fisting at his sides. “You’re so desperate you’ll say anything,” he snarled. “Your mamma killed Kip; everyone knows that.”

  “Do they? You and Honey are the ones benefitting from his death. Tell me, what does Honey get, the fame and notoriety and social standing, and you . . . you get some fat municipal insurance policies for all your hard work? Sounds like a lot of money and a lot of motive to me.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I’m getting closer all the time. You’d be surprised just how close.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “That’s what you think.” I threw in a sassy smile for good measure.